The Adventure of the Paradol Chamber
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: A strange beggar mysteriously visits the Paradol Chamber driving the local parish priest to seek Holmes' advice and expertise. As the story unfolds, Holmes wrestles against another age-old enemy. Suspense and drama abound as the two friends fight against both external and internal forces. In the end, a simple flower closes the case. Based on a prompt in The Five Orange Pips.
1. Chapter 1 Dark Beginnings

_A/N: The inspiration for this brief narrative comes from so many of Arthur Conan Doyle's originals that I cannot separate them all out for the reader. To the connoisseur of canon literature many of my descriptions will be familiar. I hope that the following conglomeration of words will congeal into a coherent essay in which the reader may be rescued for a few minutes from the "commonplace of existence (REDH)"_.

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Thank you, MrsPencil and Alice Wright, for suggesting a few alterations to improve this story. Your expertise is truly appreciated!

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The Adventure of the Paradol Chamber

The year 1887 was drawing to a close as the holiday season approached. A few shops had initiated the annual festivities early with evergreen boughs and red ribbons decorating their storefront windows and reminding passersby that Christmas was swiftly approaching.

The once colourful autumn leaves lay brown and withered forming encircling carpets at the base of barren trees standing erect like skeletons in the park. Thick grey clouds brewed overhead and shrouded the city in premature darkness while ominous rumblings of thunder in the distance predicted further rains. It was cold outside. I pitied those who must brave the blustering elements today on their various urgent errands.

My reflections on the inclement weather caused me to shift my chair closer to the warmth coming from the direction of the crackling glowing embers in the fireplace. Leaning my head back and closing my eyes I soaked in the sweet tendrils of heat allowing them to dispel the bone chilling cold that had seeped to my very core during the day's travel from patient to patient in the damp chilly air.

On the sofa my friend and colleague lay motionless and supine apparently asleep. Eyelids closed, slender form cloaked in his favorite dressing gown, and pale face inert and emotionless, he concealed the introspective thoughts whirling around in his great intellect that were too complex to articulate with mere words.

I picked up the evening paper and shuffled through the pages with but a trifling interest. Holmes' eyes fluttered open and glanced languidly in my direction. "I see you've been to visit Madam Westcott who's had an acute case of gout recently," he remarked.

Somewhat startled by this sudden pronouncement of my friend, I replied. "My dear Holmes, you are absolutely correct. But surely, how could you have guessed such details? I haven't said a word since entering the flat tonight."

"You do yourself an injustice, my dear fellow." Holmes answered enigmatically. "It isn't difficult to deduce the whereabouts of a close friend when one is intimately acquainted with his patterns. Consider the facts."

"Madam Westcott, if I am not mistaken, had an attack of gout about this time last year. I distinctly remember you bemoaning the holiday delicacies that tempt such afflicted persons to dietary excesses and lead to inconvenient emergency calls on your part to minister to their painful attacks at all hours of the day and night. Today you returned with the faint odor of eucalyptus liniment so popular among those suffering from joint maladies. Clearly you'd spent some time with a patient that had such an affliction this afternoon on your rounds."

I nodded in silent affirmation of his deductions thus far.

"Now, Westcott is famous for her jam-filled pastries of which traces remain on your shirt collar and cheek. I know that you are not in the habit of stopping for tea and pastries without some other reason; therefore, it followed that you must have had some professional business that took you to her residence and gave you opportunity to enjoy her culinary talents. It was not a difficult leap to decide that you visited in order to treat her gout, which must be a particularly severe attack since her normal supply of liniments have failed to afford relief."

"Simple, is it not?" My friend gave a wry smile.

"Yet as simple as you claim it to be, I am amazed as ever," I confessed in humble admiration at his skill.

"I never guess, my dear Watson. I merely observe the details that others fail to see." Nonetheless a thin smile flitted across his placid face in genuine appreciation of my flattering comments.

We settled into a comfortable stillness for some time after this. The shadows deepened and the rain splashed down upon the pavement below our first story flat forming shallow puddles that pedestrian and horse alike sloshed along in cadence with the drops pounding on the roof tops and streaming in cascading rivulets down the front window panes. With the last traces of daylight fading, I arose and pulled the drapes closed.

The recent inactivity in the criminal classes had left my flat mate in an irritable frame of mind. His high-strung impatient character chafed against its forced respite. Combined with the bleak winter weather outside, his artistic nature so easily influenced by the surroundings, gradually sunk into a morose and melancholy mood.

"To what depths has the poor human cesspool descended into, Watson? We try. We attain. We fall and fail again. To what end? Nothing endures in the final reckoning save a wisp of a memory at best. Why try at all? Human reason fails to find a solution that endures." He spoke fretfully like a spoiled child deprived of his favorite plaything.

Despite an excellent dinner prepared by our faithful landlady, Mrs. Hudson, Holmes merely picked at his meal with a scowl of disinterest. "Come now, Holmes. You could at least finish the chicken dumplings. They may at least improve this sour temper that afflicts you at present." I cajoled in hopes of soothing his depressive spirits.

"What is food when the mind is starved for the work that it was designed?" He complained with annoyance pushing his plate away and stalking grimly over to the mantelpiece where he stopped briefly slender fingers tapping the wood with nervous energy.

"The insufferable fatigues of this present idleness are enough to drive a thinking man mad. How much longer must I endure this drab existence? Watson, I fear it shall never end!" He paced the sitting room in fits of passionate resentment against the current shortage of mental stimulation. His cynical spirit honed fine by his incessant worry left his sarcasms sharper than a razor's edge cutting deep and precise.

Knowing my friend as I did after many years of studying his habits and methods, I left him to his impatient, pessimistic ramblings and cynical observations and settled down at my writing desk. Browsing through my notes on our recent adventures, I recalled with pleasure our investigations concerning an invaluable and delicate government document that went missing. So secret was the document, and of such great importance to the British government, that even now, I cannot divulge the details.

I continued perusing my files coming across the fantastic, the comical, and the tragic. Holmes was an artist in the sense of his work. He investigated only those cases that aroused his professional curiosity. The more obscure, the more fantastic the tale, the greater did it challenge his powers of logic and deduction and the more it appealed to his inquisitive nature. Art for art's sake. There was the six-fingered thief whereby Holmes convinced Scotland Yard of the usefulness of looking for fingerprints and another, equally educational case regarding the disappearance of Mrs. Draper's drapery, which I will one day chronicle. Tonight I picked up my pen and paper and began to draft the unfortunate account of Mme. Montpensier – a remarkable lady with an even more remarkable and sinister tale.

The hour grew late and my eyes grew heavy. Coming to the end of my narrative I set down my pen and rose to make ready for bed. My saturnine partner had at last settled himself into the cushioned chair by the window and was moodily puffing on his pipe sending thick swirls of smoke curling towards the ceiling in patterns as unreadable as the dark and brilliant thoughts that circled within his impenetrable cranium.

_A/N: Reviews, suggestions, feedback, etc. are appreciated! Two more chapters to follow._


	2. Chapter 2 The Priest's Story

The Adventure of the Paradol Chamber Ch. 2

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The next morning found me bleary-eyed from my slumbers walking downstairs into a dense fog of acrid tobacco smoke in the sitting room. "Holmes!" I cried in dismay. "How can you stand this toxic atmosphere? It is deplorable!"

My eyes streaming tears from the burning of the smoke, I stumbled blindly to the window and raised the window sash letting in a rush of cold, misty morning air. Gradually the smoke dissipated and I could discern the familiar silent figure of Holmes. He remained in the same chair from last evening. His form huddled deeper into the cushions that now seemed to envelope his inert and passive figure in acquiescence to a dark and cynical wish of his to disappear.

A pang of pity shivered through me. I felt a profound sadness for my dear friend's fruitless night vigil wrestling against an inner restlessness that I could never comprehend. I wished there was some means by which I could relieve this darkest depression that had descended upon his sensitive soul.

"Holmes, come and join me for breakfast." I invited hopefully.

My only answer came in the form of a lethargic wave of his hand in dismissal without even a glance in my direction.

I settled into the morning paper and contemplated calling my friend, Colonel Hayter, about a small holiday at his country estate in Surrey.

Just as I was shuffling the last pages of the newspaper and turning my attention to my tea cooling by my elbow, a knock on our door startled me from my reverie. Without turning, my companion at the window spoke listlessly. "A client, I believe, Watson. Rather a nervous fellow from the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. I have little hope that he will bring anything of interest though. Still, we might as well invite him to unburden his saga of woe."

I was already at the door and ushering in a very short, stout figure clad in the attire of a parish priest. His round face flushed and pink from the bitter wind of the morning's travel gave him the appearance of one of those cherubs that often adorn the tops of Christmas trees. With thick arched eyebrows and clear blue eyes that blinked in perpetual surprise he did not appear much older than a schoolboy. Only flecks of white in his hair and crinkles around the eyes betrayed his advancing years.

He stood in the doorway, alert eyes darting round the room taking in the piles of papers and books littering the floor and desk in a comfortable disarray and finally coming to rest on Holmes and myself with a quizzical expression. Thin fingers clasped nervously together. His clothing was neat and simple in accordance with the strict meticulous habits of a man possessing both a disciplined mind and body.

"Come take a seat near the fire and warm yourself. As I perceive you are as unfamiliar with us as we of you, allow me to begin." Holmes waved our guest to the chair closest to the flickering embers in the fireplace.

"I am Sherlock Holmes and this here," he looked in my direction, "is my close friend and confidant, Dr. Watson. You can rest assured of our strictest confidence."

I watched as our guest sank gratefully into the chair by the fire and began to rub his hands together in the warmth.

"Pray, let us hear of the remarkable events which have recently occurred, Father-?"

"Father Damien." He answered in reply. "But how do you know my story is so remarkable? I've only just met you."

"How could it be anything less? A scholar such as yourself would hardly be induced to leave his literary translations for a mere triviality. No, it must be more spectacular to make you leave your present work. I see that you are currently occupied in translating the epistle of Saint James from its original Greek."

The little priest stared at him with a look of utter bewilderment.

"The ink stains on your fingers and that pattern of calluses on your hands are peculiar to the scribe who finds it his passion to study and translate ancient manuscripts." Holmes explained. "I noticed in your pocket a page of Greek text titled St. James with handwritten scribbling in the margins when you hung up your coat just a few moments ago.

Father Damien looked a bit chagrinned at this revelation. "When you put it that way, Mr. Holmes, it does seem rather simple. You are correct in your observations. It had been a lifelong dream of mine to complete a modern translation of the New Testament from its original Greek."

Holmes smiled briefly and the priest continued.

"I'm sorry. I mustn't waste your precious time." He shook his head in agitation at his weakness for straying from the matter at hand to discuss ancient manuscripts. "Forgive me."

"Pray, let us hear the details from the beginning." Holmes unfurled his tall frame from its nighttime repose and stretched his arms as he walked over to the mantelpiece and turned to face our guest. I was pleased to observe Holmes' former dark aura of gloom begin to fade in anticipation of some new puzzle to solve.

The priest began apologetically. "My problem is such that I cannot go to the police for help. As of yet, no crime has been committed. Yet, deep within me, I feel something sinister and evil is looming ahead." His eyes blinked faster than usual and his voice wavered.

"I am a priest at Saint Mary's. It's a small congregation but it allows time to devote to my translations in between the usual parish duties. The front doors to our humble sanctuary, often referred to as the Paradol Chamber by the locals, are always open so that worshippers may come and go freely."

Noticing our puzzled faces at such an unusual name, he explained with a shy grin. "It refers to the wonderful spicy seed called the _grain of paradise. _I like to think our church sanctuary serves as a small seed that inspires worshippers to a heavenly paradise."

Concluding his explanation, he continued. "Throughout the day occasional members, sometimes travelers passing through town, stop to pray in our Paradol Chamber or light a candle at its altar."

"Two weeks ago a stranger made his first appearance. I noticed him particularly because he was not like the usual visitor. His clothes were shabby and threadbare, he was unshaven, his graying locks needed a haircut, and his shoes were patched in several places. Every day since then, he walks down the center aisle of the chamber, stands in front of the alter for a minute or two, and then leaves. He never kneels in prayer, lights a candle, or utters a word. I've never seen him at our church services or socializing with any of our other parishioners."

The priest sighed and shifted his weight to a more comfortable position on the chair melting into the emanating warmth from the fireplace.

"I cannot understand what his motives are behind these unusual proceedings. There is nothing criminal in visiting our church, of course. But why do it in such a mysterious manner? I fear a more sinister purpose. There are quite a few valuables housed in the chamber, ornate utensils for the sacraments, silver candlesticks, and, most recently, a pair of valuable Vatican cameos have come to us on loan all the way from Rome."

I roused myself from my seated position and put the kettle on in anticipation of morning tea setting out three cups at the same time.

Ignoring my rustlings, the priest continued. "I really can't just accost him and accuse him of plotting to steal church property. What if I'm wrong?" He shuddered at the thought.

"I probably wouldn't have said anything except for this new twist in events. Yesterday, he disappeared. He failed to show up at the noon hour. When I inquired as to his whereabouts, no one seemed to know anything about him. He appears to have been an apparition of my imagination. My mind is going mad trying to figure out what has happened. Has he fallen on desperate times and is in need of my urgent assistance? Is he plotting a burglary? Has he simply drifted on to the next town?"

Father Damien wrung his hands in such fervor of emotion and with such a piteous expression on his face that I couldn't help feel sympathy at his obvious distress.

Holmes stood silent as our guest finished his story. His face was as impassive as ever and his lids drooped heavily while his chin rested upon his clasped hands. I waited in patient expectation recognizing in the detective the deep introspection he employed while the mighty gears of logic and reasoning ground round in his finely tuned intellect. I gave our confused visitor a reassuring nod and handed him a cup of steaming, freshly brewed tea to sip whilst time passed.

He accepted gratefully.

Suddenly, the lids of my colleague sprang open and the quickening of his breath, the sparkle in his eyes, and the manner by which he spun round from the mantle to gaze out the window told me that the priest's account had captured his imagination.

"Your case has several points which have the distinct possibility of proving most interesting. You needn't concern yourself about my fees. I play the game for the game's sake and make my own choices in that way."

A sigh of relief escaped the nervous man's lips.

"Now that you have supplied me with a most excellent description of this mysterious visitor, do you not know anything else? Even the most trivial detail may be helpful." He stared intently at the priest with eyes that drilled into his mind searching out the deepest recesses for truth.

"I know nothing more," the stout man shrugged his shoulders helplessly with a woeful expression on his cherub-like features.

"He could easily be one of the many homeless beggars that congregate in the neighborhood hoping to impress themselves upon the charity of our members while accepting what little food I can afford to give them from our meager coffers."

Holmes placed a momentary soothing hand on the priest's bowed shoulders. "Return to your translation and parish duties. I will investigate this matter and report back to you when I can. In the meantime, if you see or hear anything more relating to this singular affair, you may send word immediately through a telegram to this address."

"Oh, thank you Mr. Holmes!" He exclaimed in profuse gratitude. "I can't tell you how much lighter my heart is knowing you are looking into this matter. Thank you." Tears threatened to overflow from his expressive blue eyes. He grasped my colleague's unresisting hand in his own and shook it vigorously unaware of Holmes' bemused expression at this uncharacteristic physical contact between consultant and client.

Eyes still blinking and head bobbing in excitement, our visitor exited the room to return to his manuscripts, quill, and inkbottles.

_A/N: Reviews and suggestions are appreciated. One more chapter. _


	3. Chapter 3 Answers

_An additional little disclaimer: I have delayed posting this concluding chapter due to some uncertainties about its essence. My aim was to chronicle a little story compatible to the mystery/spiritual genre. As the narrative came together I feared it might be too pious. Hence my hesitation. Finally, I made a few adjustments and decided to post. Still not sure...any feedback will be taken into account for future writings_.

_Also, for those who've already read chapters 1 and 2, I have changed Father Brown's name to Father Damien. The title was too confusing for readers familiar with the Father Brown mysteries._

The Adventure of the Paradol Chamber Ch. 3/3

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Holmes disappeared to his room and emerged no longer looking the suave gentleman but a shabby bent-over, street beggar. His disguise was so absolute that I would have dropped my cup and saucer were I not privy to past artistic make-ups. At such times, I knew my friend would be abhorrent to any company. He preferred to infiltrate the lower classes alone.

In contrast then, I changed into suitable clothing for strolling the streets in the cold, inclement weather of the day, grateful the mist had lifted and the rain clouds had scattered for a brief respite. I hailed a cab and started on the morning's work rounds, which consisted in paying home visits to several of my regular clients with chronic ailments. I couldn't resist dusting my shirt and collar and double-checking my face in the mirror for traces of jam or pastry crumbs after paying my respects to Madam Westcott.

As the noon hour drew near, I strolled the short distance from my last patient's house to the Church of St. Mary's. I occupied my thoughts with little observations of each person passing by on the streets endeavoring to apply Holmes' methods of examination. Arriving at the church and entering the famous Paradol chamber I removed my hat, traipsed quietly down the aisle and settled myself in one of the rear pews, kneeling down in a posture of prayer.

The smell of old oaken furniture, the echoes off the high, vaulted ceiling, and kaleidoscope of colors dancing down the aisle from the light streaming through the stain glassed windows brought back a rush of memories from my schoolboy days attending church with my parents. The onslaught of emotion rushed at me with such intensity I knelt in shocked silence for several minutes forgetting my original reason for coming. As the emotion ebbed into something more stable and grounding, I remained in my pew and bowed my head in reverence to the presence of a power greater than my own frail existence could hope to understand. Words were inadequate at times like these to express the language of the heart. I remained motionless and let paradise enshroud and fill me.

Eventually I roused myself from knees that groaned in protest to such an uncharacteristic posture. I smiled. What would Holmes think? The man who was described as a _brain without a heart_, a machine churning out logical sequences of events, as equally disinclined to the softer nuances of humanity, as he was prone to clinging to the ironclad facts of life. Although I had seen nothing of the mystery beggar my time in the church's chamber was not lost. I bowed a last look at the altar and noticed the figure of Christ on the cross hanging behind it. Standing in the center-aisle it appeared that the image was gazing directly into the viewer's soul.

~o~

I arrived back home in a reflective mood. Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, kindly brought up tea and biscuits for me. As the afternoon shadows lengthened and the rain clouds gathered ominously crowding out the lingering daylight, I shifted to my favorite armchair and mindlessly began reading the paper with its updates of burglary, murders, and political debates. Thoughts of the case kept intruding into my concentration and I finally gave up and sat staring into the flickering glow of the fire in the grate.

A gust of cold air with hints of winter frost in its breath blew into the room as Holmes arrived back from his investigations of the day. His cheeks and nose, pink from the cold, his eyes bright with the excitement of the chase, told me his efforts had not been in vain. Expertly wiping away his beggar's disguise and resuming his old self, he began to regale me with the day's events.

"Watson, I do believe we may unravel this tangled skein after all." He rubbed his hands warming them and chuckled. "Yes, Watson, this may yet turn into one of those bizarre cases that you are so fond of writing up in your memoirs."

Over the remainder of Mrs. Hudson's tea and biscuits, he continued his commentary. "Passing myself off as a common laborer traveling from town to town in search of odd jobs, I eventually made the acquaintance of certain key local street beggars. I learned that our mysterious church visitor has only recently wandered into town. No one seems to know where he came from or much of his past. The locals regard him as harmless. He has no accomplices as far as I can discover. It seems that two days ago the milkman's horse bolted in fright and his wagon clipped the poor man sending him to the hospital where he supposedly rests now. They say his name is James Owens."

"Wonderful, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "It appears as if the case is almost complete."

He blushed in response to my outburst. "Shall we be off then?" He looked at me expectantly.

"Of course," I replied enthusiastically.

As we bundled up against the cold, Holmes interrupted. "Might as well bring your revolver. You never know what a tiger might do when cornered."

I nodded grimly. The locals might consider him harmless but admittedly, they knew nothing of his past. He was a stranger and anything was possible.

Holmes hailed a cab and soon we arrived at the hospital. It was a somber, dreary looking brick structure. Five stories high, it loomed above our heads in a menacing manner that was enough to strike fear into the hearts of all who entered through its doors. Inside, the sterile white walls and tiled floor echoed hollowly as various medical personnel made their rounds.

It did not take long to discover on which ward our suspect was admitted. The two of us walked down the corridor to the men's public ward in anxious anticipation of finding answers at last to Owen's baffling presence in church and his puzzling behavior at the altar.

"Mr. James Owens?" Holmes looked down at a grizzled gray haired man aged beyond his years by the harsh elements life had burdened upon him.

"Yes?" He turned frank and open eyes in our direction. His left leg was plastered in a heavy white cast and slung up in traction at the end of his bed. His expression had such a child-like trust and innocence that I let out an involuntary gasp of surprise, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath in suspense.

We pulled up two rickety wooden chairs designated for visitors and sat down next to his thin hospital cot. Shaking hands with its occupant, I began introductions. "I'm Dr. Watson and this is my colleague, Mr. Holmes. My friend's a detective." I waved to my seated partner next to me.

Then I continued. "Now please, don't be alarmed. We've simply been trying to find you to ask you a few questions. Nothing criminal," I hastily added when I saw the flash of alarm cross his tender face. "We'd be much obliged if you could answer our questions now.

"Anything." He answered calmly.

"What is it that you were doing when you entered Saint Mary's Paradol chamber at noon for a few moments every day over the past two weeks?"

"Oh, well, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," He nodded to both of us. "It's a little embarrassing actually. I don't mind tellin' you but I'd be grateful if you could keep it to yourselves. It's not that I'm ashamed, it's just, well, some folks might not understand." He shrugged and looked around the room.

"You see, it's really quite simple. I visit the church and stand at the altar to pray. Just a simple prayer. 'God, it's me, Jim.' I stand there a few moments just me and God then I leave. I can't really explain it but somehow the rest of my day is easier to bear."

His words were sincere and spoken without a hint of malice or pride. Holmes sat silent.

Mr. Owens turned his head away and his eyes took on a far-away introspective look. He whispered so faintly I strained to catch his words. "Now at noon every day, I have this impression, almost a dream. In it, He comes to me and says, 'Jim, it's me, God.' Somehow it's made these dreary days in bed bearable."

~o~

We left the hospital almost reverently. The black storm clouds overhead that had progressively been growing thicker and more threatening, let loose a deluge of heavy rains. The pounding of the droplets on our cab's roof and the occasional thunder roll in the distance precluded any verbal exchange though I perceived from my colleague's vacant expression that he would rather not engage in conversation anyway. He stared off into the distance with his arms crossed and his hands tucked under his coat until we reached the church of Saint Mary's and he descended from our ride to relay news of the case to Father Damien.

I waited in our flat, drying myself before the glowing embers, while occupying my time writing down a few case notes. The reassuring steady drum of raindrops against the windowpane and the smell of dinner wafting up from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen lulled my body into a peaceful slumber by the time Holmes returned.

My partner briskly hung up his coat and changed into more comfortable evening attire. Descending the stairs in his dressing gown and slippers, he gently tapped me on the shoulders.

"Watson, my dear fellow. It's not like you to miss dinner." A smile lingered on his lips as he teased me from my repose.

Sitting down at the table where a delicious hot meal was arranged for the two of us, I noticed a single rose in the centre. Observing my questioning glance, Holmes replied. "It is a flower from Father Damien."

He picked up the rose and held it delicately in his hands gazing into its velvety petals and breathing in the sweet aroma. "It is a reminder to me of this case."

He motioned to the savory meal before us and I caught a rare glimpse of the philosopher and dreamer hidden within his mechanical labyrinth of cold logic. He elaborated. "This food that nourishes the body, these walls that surround and protect us, even our wants and desires that propel us forward are necessary elements in our existence. But, it is this simple flower, this excess of nature, which offers the most plausible proof to the goodness of Providence. It's colourful beauty and delicate smell gives us hope for a paradise beyond our humble reality."

Solemnly he set the rose back in its vase on the table. "The flowers give much to hope for. There are forces at work in this world of which we have much to learn."

A lingering wistfulness hung in the air as Holmes shook his head and came to the end of his eloquent reveries. He smiled and picked up his fork and knife. "Watson, let us forget the dark and sinister evils that surround us this evening and feast upon the excellent partridge that dear Mrs. Hudson has miraculously roasted to perfection tonight."

I heartily agreed as I sliced into a mouth-watering piece of the tender meat before me.

Rising from the table some time later, happily satiated with both the food and company, I contemplated the events of the past few days. "Watson," Holmes called from across the room. "Hand me my violin. Let us while away this bleak cold night with a tune or two."

For the rest of the evening I sat by the fire enraptured by heavenly melodies flowing effortlessly from his violin bow and floating in luminous arcs round our sitting room. The darkness of the night faded in the light of his music.

THE END

_A/N: This is my first attempt at writing for this particular genre in FF. I would gratefully appreciate any critiques and suggestions, opinions and impressions, or really, any feedback on this piece!_


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